


Satin Is Overrated

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, MSR, Mulder's shirt, but we don't talk about cc's nonsense, revival era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: He likes her in his shirt.





	Satin Is Overrated

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed that somehow has a familiar smell. His body tries to send panic signals out, but he practices what he’s learned in therapy: breathe deeply (in through the nose, out through the mouth), relax muscles one by one from toes to jaw, catalogue your surroundings through your senses.

Rain at the windows — peaceful sound. Perfectly firm mattress beneath him, comfortable pillow, soft sheets. No bleachy cleaner aroma; not an institutional room, someone’s home. Feeling of safety, companionship.

It’s only seconds till he remembers with a smile and opens his eyes: He’s at Scully’s, a place he’s not used to yet, but considering he’s here probably four nights out of seven these days, it won’t be long till he is.

Sounds from the kitchen reveal the mystery of where Scully herself has gone; still in just his boxers, he detours to the bathroom to freshen up before following the scent of coffee to its source.

He pauses in the doorway to appreciate the sight: Scully on tiptoe, reaching for the mugs that she keeps on too high a shelf for no reason, her big droopy nightshirt riding up to expose a pair of pale lavender boyshorts. He’s not even sorry about the hard-on; at his age, he appreciates the reliability.

She turns and catches sight of him, her eyes dropping immediately to his crotch; her devilish little smile tells him she does keep those mugs up high for a reason.

He loves that smile, loves that it’s for him, still, after all they’ve lived through. “Good morning,” he says, in a slightly choked-up voice that he hopes passes for sleep-rough. Then, as another little mystery strikes him: “Is that my shirt?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Innocent, provocative — the little minx leans ever-so-casually against the counter, shrugs, lets one shoulder of the too-big neckline fall down to reveal pale freckled skin that practically begs to be kissed.

“Significant downgrade, style-wise, from the satin PJs you used to wear,” he teases, stepping closer.

“Mmmmaaybe, but satin is … overrated.” What a feeling, to be the cause of that little hitch in her breath as he traces a finger lightly along her exposed collarbone. “Besides, this smells like you, and —” she sighs, then inhales deeply as he embraces her, “God, you smell good.”

He nuzzles her hair, closes his eyes, lets her fill all of his senses. “So do you,” he murmurs. He shivers at the trace of her fingers along his spine, presses tighter to her, feels her move deliberately against him with her hips. “Mmmm, so good,” he says, kissing that spot right behind her ear, breath tickling her neck.

She reaches out, blindly feeling at the coffee maker till she finds the button to turn it off. “Breakfast can wait,” she half-laughs into a soft kiss that turns urgent. He hums his agreement without breaking the kiss. Picks her up, glad for all those hours he’s spent in the gym this last year. Walks the dozen steps to her sofa and eases her down onto it.

She starts to take the shirt off, but he stops her — “I like you wearing my clothes.”

It sounds more possessive than he meant it to, but she doesn’t seem to mind. No, he thinks as he tongues a peaked nipple through the cloth, slides a hand up underneath to stroke along her velvety inner thigh — she doesn’t seem to mind that at all.

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt from @surefinewhatev4r: "Is that my shirt?"


End file.
